


Ode on a period of recovery

by notapartytrick



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Big Brother Peter Parker, Christmas, Gen, Genius Morgan Stark (Marvel Cinematic Universe), Hurt Peter Parker, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, John Keats - Freeform, Medical Procedures, New Years, Not Canon Compliant, POV Tony Stark, Peter Parker Gets a Hug, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker Whump, Philosophy, Poetry, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Precious Morgan Stark (Marvel Cinematic Universe), Protective Tony Stark, Recovery, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Whump, as in tony isn't dead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:02:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28292076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notapartytrick/pseuds/notapartytrick
Summary: “Calm down, Tones, okay? I promise I’m on my way. I’ll be with him in four minutes. Four minutes and I’ll get to him. It’ll do nothing for him if you’re a wreck.”Rhodey’s voice did nothing to soothe the roiling, nauseous panic clawing at Tony. He found that, try as he might, he couldn’t stop himself from being a wreck. It was Peter.These incidents never gave him enough time to think. Never enough damn time. One moment, it was him and the snow and the cabin, and the next, the very air around him was thinned out, turned rancid. Some interior tectonic plate shifted and now Tony was here, thinking of nothing but blood.---Peter is kept company at the Starks' cabin as he recovers from a near-fatal clash with the Kingpin. Christmas approaches.
Relationships: May Parker (Spider-Man) & Peter Parker, May Parker (Spider-Man) & Tony Stark, Pepper Potts/Tony Stark, Peter Parker & Morgan Stark (Marvel Cinematic Universe), Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 16
Kudos: 144
Collections: Irondad and Spiderson Secret Santa 2020





	Ode on a period of recovery

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Areias](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Areias/gifts).



> This work is for Areias..... I had like a week to write it and had no idea what you wanted so I found all your birthday prompts and tried to combine as many as possible into an idea and this thing with Keats passages and ancient philosophical theories and tiny segments of two timelines kinda happened?? i hope like it alright or at least get a nice hopeful christmas vibe from it at the end!  
> i really sold it to y'all lmao  
> okay have fun reading!!!

_ “Boss, Karen is relaying an alert. Code red.” _

“What?”

_ “The Spider-Man suit is reporting critical damage.” _

“It’s… he’s in class.”

_ “He is not. Through the Baby Monitor’s recent feed history, I have identified the face of Wilson Fisk.” _

It happened like this.

_ “Would you like me to initiate the Big Boo-boo protocol?” _

“Christ -  _ yes. _ Where’s Rhodey, get me Rhodey. Get him to…”

“Colonel Rhodes is on the line.”

_ “Calm down, Tones, okay? I promise I’m on my way. I’ll be with him in four minutes. Four minutes and I’ll get to him. It’ll do nothing for him if you’re a wreck.” _

Rhodey’s voice did nothing to soothe the roiling, nauseous panic clawing at Tony. 

He packed up his stuff in a hurry, probably forgetting everything he’d actually need. The cabin felt stifling all of a sudden, whether by its own oppressive emptiness or the blanket of snow swamping it. Tony hated it. Pepper had left only ten minutes ago and he hated it. He hated that somewhere in the city, in the snow or sleet or sludge, at 3pm in the afternoon, Peter Parker was in a critical condition, and Tony with his limp and stiff gait and impaired vision had nothing to do but wait for him at the Compound. 

He found that, try as he might, he couldn’t stop himself from being a wreck. It was  _ Peter. _

These incidents never gave him enough time to think. Never enough damn time. One moment, it was him and the snow and the cabin, and the next, the very air around him was thinned out, turned rancid. Some interior tectonic plate shifted and now Tony was here, thinking of nothing but blood.

He set the car to drive itself, not trusting his shaking hands.

  
  


_ Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness, _

_ Thou foster-child of silence and slow time, _

_ Sylvan historian, who canst thus express _

_ A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme: _

_ What leaf-fring'd legend haunts about thy shape _

_ Of deities or mortals, or of both, _

_ In Tempe or the dales of Arcady? _

  
  


Spaghetti bolognese. 

It’s good because Pepper’s made it. She’s become the link that holds Tony and May and Morgan and Peter and herself together these last few days they’ve all spent at the cabin. Tony has never been more thankful for her ability to keep the world spinning.

Peter doesn’t like to see people eating, although he denies the fact. He’ll be weaned onto solid foods in a few days, but for now he’s still got a tube that does it for him. This is why Tony’s wolfing down his dinner in the kitchen. He thinks Morgan is still keeping Peter company. Someone always is. The kid hates to be alone and bedbound: another fact he won’t admit to but May saw through in an instant. Tony can understand that.

Pepper comes by, saying nothing, just planting a kiss on Tony’s cheek on her way through. Her and May must be with each other. May works off her fear through long and cathartic rants to friends. Tony envies her for that. If only he could be so healthy, right?

He stows his dish in the sink, blocking out the now-familiar strain of his back as he rises from his chair, and heads straight for Peter’s room. It was always there, always something he’d insisted on when they bought the cabin, a spare room just in case. Ridiculous at first, because Peter had never been around before the Snap; but he’d never reached for Tony’s hold to save him before he’d crumbled on Titan, either. That room was an empty space for five years before it had the chance to grow into a real kid’s bedroom. Now, it’s a Frankenstein’s monster of the friendly space it had been and the new medical installments which keep the kid on his slow upward climb back to health. It’s pretty fucking sad.

He knocks softly before entering. “Hey, kiddo.”

The door is deceivingly average, white and wooden and reflective of every other door in the corridor, hiding the state of the kid inside.

“Hi,” Peter whispers, and there’s a hint of a genuine smile there. May is not, as Tony had presumed, with Pepper, but sitting by Peter’s bedside and scrutinising a puzzle laid out on a tray across the kid’s lap, pieces of which Morgan is brandishing between her knuckles. 

She beams up at Tony. “We’re doing a puzzle with three hundred pieces!”

Tony approaches them. Morgan seems to be offering some genuine help with her store of distinctive pieces. She’s a little genius. Tony can’t help but smile. Peter is doing the best he can with the arm that isn’t locked in a cast, gingerly picking and placing pieces.

Peering over the free side of the bed, Tony spots a partially-constructed image of a poster for A New Hope. 

“Nice choice,” he comments lightly. Peter huffs in acknowledgement. It sounds painful. It must be, pushed out through his half-healed diaphragm.

There’s a piece that Tony knows will fit beneath the rim of the top left corner, but he resists the urge to put it there. The kid needs all the independence he can get nowadays, now he’s catheterized and bedbound and tube-fed and read to and handed his own phone. Instead, he stations himself at Peter’s other side.

The air is thick and a little awkward, Morgan the only one oblivious to it. “This is something,” Tony remarks in an attempt to clear it. “How long have you two been working on it?”

“We’re fast,” Morgan butts in eagerly. She jams a piece into the wrong spot; Peter gently guides her to a better position. “We’re  _ geniuses.” _

“Geniuses, are you? That’s a fancy word.”

“Peter taught me it,” Morgan says, nudging him. Tony twitches for a moment, wanting to pull her away, but she’s learnt to be gentle while Peter’s healing. It’s a frequent occurrence. “He taught me all the people in the puzzle. That’s Luke, and Leia and Han, and Shoe-bacca who’s furry and two hundred and thirty centimetres tall. Darth Vader has the funny msk that makes him breathe like  _ hah, shhh. _ C3PO is the golden thingy, and he’s with R2D2 who’s his friend, and on the left are weird faces. Peter said the guy at the bottom is... i-rel-e-vant.”

May and Tony laugh. Peter almost laughs.

The kid isn’t the kid anymore. He’s a shell. Tony’s just waiting for when he’ll come back and inhabit himself again.

  
  


_ What men or gods are these? What maidens loth? _

_ What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape? _

_ What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy? _

  
  


Where the cabin had felt too small to contain the tempest of Tony’s terror, the compound’s impressive scale seemed to magnify it, force him to study it in the surface of the tall glass walls. He moved inwards, attempting a pace his battered body couldn’t match, away from the glass and towards the white of the MedBay.

_ “You have faced this before and you will face it again, Tony.” _ Pepper on the phone.  _ “Peter always bounces back. You can count on him to do that. Just be around for him, make him laugh.” _

“I’m not in a laughing mood, and neither will he be.”   


_ “ _ _ You’re the master of finding humour in deadly serious situations.” _

“Aw. That’s sweet of you.”

_ “It’s usually very grating.” _

Tony made an offended noise.

_ “See? You’re using melodrama. From what I’ve seen of Peter, he uses puns and deflection and references. You both make totally inappropriate jokes. That’s how you cope. So cope. I know you can, honey.” _

May burst through the doors; Tony said goodbye to Pepper and pocketed his phone.

“Is he here?”

Tony shook his head. “Any minute.”

“Alright. Alright.” May breathed for a moment, dragging her hands through her hair, then tied a ponytail with a kind of ferocity that Tony could identify with all too well.

_ “We don’t have to fight, Mister Fisk. We can sort this out.” _

_ “You’re sweet.” _

_ And blood on the tiles, red on white, red and white and blue, his red and blue suit red-stained. _

“May, it’s - I think this is serious. I think this is worse than before.”

By this, Tony meant  _ worse than it’s ever been. _

May pursed her lips desperately. “Alright.”

  
  


_ Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard _

_ Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on; _

_ Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear’d, _

_ Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone. _

  
  


Fractured tibia, sprained ankle, dislocated clavicle, damage to the diaphragm, three broken ribs, shattered ulna, two broken, two chipped teeth, fractured jaw and cheekbone, not to mention the countless bruises and contusions.

The kid is a battleground. The few unharmed pieces of him fight to keep him working. When he’s not sleeping, he’s napping, and when he’s not napping he’s uncomfortable and short of breath and plagued by aches and pains that transcend even the power of the superpowered painkillers he’s on. Peter Parker could never sit still. Now he must.

Tony wonders why he keeps feeling the way he felt after Titan: these small dashes of wordless grief dredging through his system and messing up his head. Maybe it’s the heartache of a kid wrapped up in white like he’s made of a glass, a kid who was torn to pieces by a monster.

Grief for the living - it’s an interesting thought. 

Peter does seem like a ghost on some days. Some days he can barely open his eyes from fatigue. Maybe Tony jumps to grief when he thinks of the kid at all. He doesn’t know, he probably needs some more therapy. You know who needs therapy? Peter goddamn Parker. Peter Parker who got battered to a literal pulp by Kingpin and didn’t once raise an alarm of his own volition.

Tony wishes he could have been there. Or does he? Does he really wish the sights he’d seen through the Baby Monitor -  _ Peter pleading, no longer negotiating but begging for an end to the pain, crawling, no longer Spider-Man but nothing more than a scared child -  _ had been real? 

No, he does. Even just for the sake of holding the kid’s hand. He doesn’t do shit anymore, with his scarred arm and rusty joints. He’s officially retired. He doesn’t notice it as often as he thought he would, actually - only really when Rhodey or Peter are in need of being swept away from danger. Yeah, that’s what Tony likes. Sweeping people away from danger.

In the absence of that, he’s consigned to the role of gathering up broken shards. He kind of loathes it.

It’s been eight days since Peter got injured, and May has just entered the room to clean the kid’s teeth. Tony books it out of there. The kid gets snappy when he’s reminded of just how little autonomy he has at the moment. And, God, Tony doesn’t blame him.

It’ll be at least another two weeks before Peter is able to leave his bed, even considering his enhancements. He’s going to spend Christmas in his room. But he’ll have family with him at the very least; Tony will make sure of that.

Before Tony can shut the door, the kid calls his name in that painful, strained voice he has at the moment: “Hey, Tony?”   


“Yup?”

“I - I finished the first Chaos Walking. Could you…”

“Onto the next book?”   


“Yeah.”

“No problem. No problem at--” Tony stops himself before he can get overenthusiastic. “Sure.”

Almost the moment he’s shut the door, Morgan materialises in his path. “Is he asleep yet?” she whisper-yells.

Tony hefts her onto his hip. Sure, it twinges, but it’s worth it for the little giggle he gets in response. Plus, it’s only a matter of time before she gets too big to be carried at all, or - God forbid - she stops wanting them to.

“Not yet, but soon.”

“Good. I wanted someone to build my circuit with all day but nobody was there.”

That honestly breaks Tony’s heart a little. “Oh, Mo-mo. Did you not ask Mommy?”   


“She was no fun. I like making the big circuits with you. Or Peter, but not Peter anymore.”   


“You can make circuits with him real soon. He won’t be stuck in bed forever.”

“But still for a  _ long time.” _ She looks up at him mournfully. For a five-year-old, Tony supposes, three weeks must feel like an eternity. “Can we please build it now?”

It’s actually only 7pm, so there’s an hour to kill before her bedtime. Peter usually ends up asleep before her and might stay knocked out until midday the next day. May sleeps in a fold-out bed beside him. Sometimes, Tony sleeps with the kid and lets May enjoy a proper bed in the spare room.

“Let’s do it,” he tells Morgan, relishing the cheer she emits.

Seeing Peter and Morgan together was an epiphany, a dream he didn’t even know he’d been longing for until it was realised. Morgan had extended a brisk hand upwards to Peter, told him “Daddy told me everything about you,” and grinned as the bewildered Peter shook it. Minutes later, they were deep within an elaborate game of make-believe. It’s not only seeing the two of them but seeing Peter get an opportunity to  _ play, _ to act like a kid for once and shed the weight of the world in return for dragons and robots and royal parties, which soothes Tony’s heart. Morgan loves Peter because Peter’s incredibly endearing, but also possesses a unique blend of intelligence and youthful enthusiasm she seems to connect to. 

Morgan has been as understanding as one can expect a kindergartner to be about her pseudo-brother’s long recovery from near-fatal injury, adapting her play to allow Peter to participate as best as he can, even - with an adult’s help - reading his books aloud to him when he becomes too tired to focus on the lines.

But then there’s this. Not a tug-of-war for Tony’s attention, but a reminder that if he strays too far to one end of the rope, it will tighten.

_ “It’s over, kid. You’ve lost. Give up.” _

_ “No.” _

_ “Why? Why must you be so irritatingly optimistic?” _

_ “Because I’m Spider-Man.” _

_ “And this is what’s become of him. Of the so-called amazing Spider-Man. How disappointing. I’m going to break a few more of your ribs now, I think. See if you change your mind.” _

He drops Morgan off in the garage for a moment and fetches the kid his book. As he nears the door to the room, however, he notes something in May’s muffled voice that gives him pause.

“Even if not me, then someone. Talk to  _ someone, _ honey.”

“I’m fine. I dunno, I’m just tired.”

“I know you’re fine. But you don’t have to be.”

There’s a long silence. Then, again, “I’m just tired.” 

Tony leaves the book at the door.

  
  


_ Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave _

_ Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare; _

_ Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss, _

_ Though winning near the goal yet, do not grieve; _

_ She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss, _

_ For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair! _

  
  


There was nothing and then there was everything. A clamour of noise, the doors thrust open, a team of medics jogging a gurney down the corridor. Tony and May sprinted for the pale form lying on it.

Peter was a blur, and Tony couldn’t tell whether that was because of the panicked fuzziness of his own vision or the blood he was drenched in. So much blood, a dizzying amount. His chest stuttered around his panting breaths. Christ, his face was so swollen Tony could hardly find his features.

There was a primal urge to soothe with hands, but the blood was everywhere. May managed to get hold of a hand, miraculously clean and unharmed. They were jogging, jogging, and Peter was groaning. He shouldn’t have been awake, looking like that. It was horrifying.

“Everything’s gonna be okay, baby boy,” May whispered to him.

“‘ay?” came a gurgling response.

Tony, seeking some way to comfort the kid and finding himself confronted instead with bloodied ribbons of flesh that should have been an arm, was stunned.

“Wha’s…”

He must have been on morphine. Glazed pupils, but beneath the haze, so much fear.

“They’re gonna fix you up now, kid,” Tony found himself saying.

He fucked up, because he couldn’t take his eye off the mangled arm, and Peter managed to follow his gaze and looked down at himself with widened eyes. “Wha’s… it… ‘ay, I…”   


“You’ll be okay,” May said, firmer now. “You will.”

Peter closed his eyes and shuddered.

And then there was nothing - nothing but a backdraught of air and, suddenly, the weight of a body collapsing against him. He caught May on instinct, letting them both slide to the floor, gripping her as she shook and sobbed. She was a storm; he was numb.

“My boy… my little boy… what’s gonna happen to my boy?”

_ “Stop right there, Mr. Fisk!” _

_ “Hello, Spider-Man. This should be interesting.” _

  
  


_ Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed _

_ Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu; _

_ And, happy melodist, unwearied, _

_ For ever piping songs for ever new. _

  
  


A doctor visits every few days to monitor Peter’s healing. He checks each fracture, removes dressings where wounds have healed, asks the kid questions, empties his catheter. It’s never a fun process for anyone. The doctor left just ten minutes ago; Tony’s sitting with Peter to keep him company, but purposefully staying quiet. He can actually feel tension radiating from him.

“Peter, Peter, Peter,” comes a familiar voice. Morgan bounds in and plants her elbows on Peter’s mattress.

“Hey, Mo,” Peter says, managing a smile. He’s a little less croaky than he was a few days ago.

“I played superheroes at school but nobody knew as much about them as you and they’re all not very smart. So will you play?”

Peter sighs. There’s a whole lot of sadness in that sigh.

“Honey, Peter still can’t play yet,” Tony reminds her.

“When will you be able to play again?” whines Morgan.

Something breaks in Peter then, something that allows forth an attitude Tony’s never seen in him before. He sets his jaw and bites back, “I don’t know. Never, if you keep pestering me.”

“You’re no fun anymore,” Morgan retorts, undeterred. “You’re always moody.”

All at once, the kid seems to shrink in place, shrivelling until the white sheets swallow him whole. He covers his face with tense hands.

Now, deprived of the autonomy to walk away from the situation, he tries to hide himself.

“Tony, please - I can’t…”

It sounds so broken that it gets Tony to his feet in an instant. He sweeps Morgan away. “C’mon, princess. Probably time for a snack anyway.”

He takes her to Pepper and makes sure she’ll be kept away from the kid’s bedroom for a little while. They’re all in an uneasy orbit around that room, all at risk of collision at any moment.

Then he returns to chat to the kid.   


“I’m sorry,” is the first thing Peter says. His gaze is distant, floating somewhere around the join of the wall and ceiling. 

“It’s fine.” Tony searches for a knee beneath the sheets and hopes when his hand lands and squeezes in comfort that he’s at least got a shin. “She’s still a little young to get her head around this, I guess.”

Tony finds himself searching for eye contact, for a connection that the kid keeps shying away from.

Peter opens his mouth, then shuts it. Then, at last, something cracks. He looks at Tony. “I was gonna yell at her,” he whispers. He shuts his eyes as if pained by the admission.

“We all feel like yelling sometimes.”

Tony’s hand naturally migrates to Peter’s unkempt hair, smoothing stray strands back into place, but the kid doesn’t appear to take any comfort from it.   


“She didn’t do anything wrong and I was mean to her.” His voice splinters. “I was gonna shout at her.”   


“Pete, it’s okay.”

I just can’t… God.” The kid’s breath hitches; he smooths a hand over his chest as if the motion will clear whatever knot of emotion must have accumulated there. Tears spring to his eyes. Tony aches for him.

“I know.” It doesn’t mean anything.

“I’m so tired.”

“I know,” Tony says again.

“I’m exhausted, and I’m sick of it. I’m sick of recovering and I’m sick of being stuck in bed and it’s only been - what, ten days?”   


“Nine.”

“Yeah. And, you know, there are people who have to deal with being stuck in bed for months or  _ years _ .”

“That doesn’t mean it isn’t hard for you too.”   


“Man.” Peter, startlingly, laughs, scrubbing at his tears. “I feel pretty stupid,” he admits with a glance up to Tony.

“C’mere, kid. C’mere.” Tony gets onto his knees, ignoring their creaks of protest, so he can properly fold Peter into his arms. He grips the kid’s shoulder and pats it. “Thanks for talking.”

“I just complained. And cried.”

“Hey, don’t discount the value of a little complaining and crying.”

He gets a watery smile for his efforts. 

“I know you, and I know that you’re not one to talk - except when you’re running your mouth, of course - and certainly not to complain. And I can relate to that.”

_ “Relatable,” _ croaks Peter.

Tony chuckles at the sight of him cracking jokes and weeping simultaneously. “Well, look, you’ve done a good thing now. I know how you’re feeling and I can try and help you out.”   


“There’s not really anything you can do to help.”   


Being unable to help the kid is not an option, so Tony takes Pepper's advice and tries some good ol' humour. “I can get Morgan to stop talking about your catheter?”

_ “Please. _ Nobody is ever allowed to talk about my catheter,  _ ever.” _

They become lost in their own meaningless laughter. It’s light, relieving.

  
  


_ More happy love! more happy, happy love! _

_ For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd, _

_ For ever panting, and for ever young; _

_ All breathing human passion far above, _

_ That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd, _

_ A burning forehead, and a parching tongue. _

  
  


Exhaustion pervaded the room. Tony certainly felt exhausted. May looked exhausted. The kid was out cold, swathed in white, held together with plastic and fabric - but he was  _ there. _ His heart monitor beeped steadily.

“He won’t want to be stuck in a hospital while he heals up,” May said, stirring a little from her curled-up position in a chair by the bed. They’d each moved to guard one side of the kid and had no intention of giving up their posts for at least the next few hours.

She made a point. The kid was in and out of the MedBay near-constantly for patch-ups after patrol and never liked to sit around in bed. He once tried to walk off a punctured lung to avoid having to stay the night in the ward. Tony reckoned it was an instinctual pulling away from the place he became so accustomed to as a child after countless inhaler prescriptions and ER visits. Perhaps it was also about a skewed need to prove his mettle, his independence from caregivers. Really, Tony knew that the kid thrived off of hugs and reassurance and comfort, because he was a  _ kid. _ He just kept up a pretty good facade sometimes that appeared to prove otherwise.

“The cabin might be good for him,” Tony found himself suggesting.

May did nothing but nod. It was enough of a plan that they could feel like there was some semblance of solid ground beneath them.

Aching for something to do with his hands to quiet his mind, Tony reached for Peter’s covers, drawing them up beneath his bruised chin and tucking them around him. May watched him, watched them - because Tony knew he was being utterly transparent and acting like a dad, and he didn’t care - and smiled sadly.

  
  


_ Who are these coming to the sacrifice? _

_ To what green altar, O mysterious priest, _

_ Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies, _

_ And all her silken flanks with garlands drest? _

  
  


Peter lays and Tony sits, reading. If he were simply staring at Peter it’d get awkward. The lamp provides enough light to get by, anyway.

Peter sighs.   


“Still can’t sleep?”

A rustling of the kid’s pillow suggests he’s shaken his head. “It sucks, not being able to move. I usually curl up on my side. And my arm’s just… itchy, and kind of weird and sore.”

If Peter’s complaining this openly, it must really be bugging him.

“Wanna hear what I’m reading about?” Tony asks him, turning to distraction.

The kid shuffles himself awkwardly around so he’s a little more propped up then says, “Uh-huh.”

“This is an essay exploring an ancient philosophical concept called the music of the spheres, or  _ musica universalis.  _ There was a completely different understanding of the galaxy back then, planets orbiting around earth and all that jazz. Although it’s incorrect, the idea’s got a charm to it. People like Plato, Aristotle, Copernicus, they all developed these cosmological models to try and explain space. The idea was that each planet was embedded in a sphere of a translucent fifth element they called quintessence - you might know it as aether. The stars had one, too, this huge, crystalline, star-studded sphere. So they thought the cosmos was full of this quintessence, this crystal stuff, layers and layers of it wrapped around the earth and holding the celestial bodies in place around it.

“Pythagoras was one of the guys behind the music of the spheres. He’d figured out that the pitch of a note is inversely proportional to the length of the string that produces it. So, he had the idea that all the planets emitted a unique kind of music depending on the way they orbited, and together the cosmos was full of celestial music, the planets singing in harmony with each other.”   


“But the planets don’t sing,” Peter mumbles.

“Not in a way that’s audible to the human ear. But he thought that the quality of life on Earth was reflected in whatever music the planets were singing up there. So it’s almost like the planets are singing to us about what’s going on in our lives - we just can’t hear them.”   


“That’s sad.”

“I guess so. To me, it’s just a beautiful idea. That the galaxy is sharing in our joy and sorrow and singing it back to us in such a heavenly way we couldn’t cope with it if we were to hear it.”

“Hm. Why are you reading that?”   


“Dunno, it’s Pepper’s. Essays about John Keats.”

“Who?”   


“A British poet. He talked about the music of the spheres. Or, they think.  _ Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard are sweeter.” _

“So he liked the music of the spheres.”   


“He did. He wrote some really interesting stuff, actually. He thought through this whole argument in his poem over whether it was better to be frozen in time or living through it. In the end, he realises it’s better to live.”

“Why’s that?”

“These figures on an urn he’s studying are frozen in a moment of bliss, but by suspending the moment it is never totally acted out. Part of the beauty of living is the mortality of things. They’re precious because they don’t last. And isn’t it better to have had those great moments than to be stuck in that state of almost-joy forever? He wants to live and die and enjoy it.  _ Beauty is truth.” _

_ “Beauty is truth _ always confused me. What does it actually mean?”   


“People have been puzzling over that for decades. I think you’ve got to figure it out for yourself, kid.”

  
  


_ What little town by river or sea shore, _

_ Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel, _

_ Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn? _

_ And, little town, thy streets for evermore _

_ Will silent be; and not a soul to tell _

_ Why thou art desolate, can e'er return. _

  
  


Tony was reading, too, when Peter had first woken up in the MedBay.

He hadn’t even noticed the small shifting noises to his right until they were superceded by a drowsy groan.

Tony flung his book aside. There were the brown eyes he’d so hoped would open again. “Kid?”   


“Wow,” Peter croaked, squinting hazily over at Tony. “Sleeping was better. Ouchie.”

“Jesus, seriously?  _ Ouchie?” _ Because Peter is always bafflingly nonchalant when he wakes up in a strange hospital bed after major injury, and Tony has given up trying to get him to take it as seriously as his caregivers do.

The kid lays his good hand across his face, still peeking out between his fingers at Tony. “What else am I supposed to say? I’m kinda running out, I’d actually... appreciate your suggestions.”

“Jesus,” Tony said again. He bent over and, as gently as possible, drew the kid into his arms.

After a day or two, they allowed in a few visitors. The kid made video calls to his friends, put on a brave face. Happy was sad to see the kid laid up the way he was, but it was Rhodey’s reaction that caught Tony off guard. He went to Tony first and sank into his open arms as if desperate to draw strength from him. This wasn’t the Rhodey Tony was used to.

“How much do you remember?” he asked the kid, who he’d also given a hug to, something he’d never done before.

“Not a ton. I was pretty out of it.” 

Peter looked pretty out of it still. He was particularly heartbreaking to look at in those first few days, face bound and stitched up and swollen, bruised all over, one arm and one leg in a cast, pale and washed-out and sluggish with medication and his healing factor’s constant pull towards sleep.

“I remember you coming to get me, though. Thank you.”   


“It’s no problem at all. I’ll always be around to get you.”

And for a moment Tony feels, to his own ridicule,  _ jealousy _ \- a potent longing to be the person that gets the kid, to have the duty and do it right.

Rhodey had gotten to Peter as fast as he could. And yet, in the stubbornly wishful part of Tony’s mind, he thought that if it had been him, it wouldn’t have taken four minutes.

The kid conked out the moment his visitors were ushered away, and then it was just May and Tony and Peter’s quiet breathing and the stifling quiet of the room all over again.

“He’ll be alright,” May told Tony’s hand-covered face.

“He’s pretty fucked up, May.”

“That he is.”

Tony looked at her.

“Tony, this kid is undeniably fucked up. Twice-orphaned… almost thrice.” She glanced significantly at him. “Bitten by a radioactive spider, goes out in a mask every night to beat up the ghost of the guy who killed Ben, rails at himself constantly for his inability to protect the entire universe from the suffering he himself has seen too much of.”

“Did you get that from his therapist?”   


“Partly. Partly from being his guardian. You can see all that, right?”   


“Yes,” is all Tony can say.

“But isn’t he great?”   


May raised the rims of her glasses a little with the breadth of her smile as she gazed down at Peter.

Tony discovered a lump in his throat.

“We’ve done right by him,” she said, then turned to him. “Right?”

“We… he’s totally unique. I don’t know if you could measure it. But... considering we kind of have our work cut out for us? I think we have, May. I think he’s growing up to be someone even more incredible than he already is. Us, and Ben, and his parents, we’ve given him enough love to make that happen. That sounds good to me.”

The buzz of the lights, the beeping of the kid’s heart monitor, the distant bustle of activity in the Compound, and perhaps a more celestial sound unheard by any of them but ringing out all around, all serenaded the three of them sat in the small ward, together, cradled by the fabric of a universe that bled with them.

  
  


_ O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede _

_ Of marble men and maidens overwrought, _

_ With forest branches and the trodden weed; _

_ Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought _

_ As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral! _

  
  


It’s Morgan’s idea. She’s mature enough to gather that her nagging had upset Peter, as good-natured as it had been, and, in a display of healthy emotional expression Tony knows she inherited solely from Pepper, plans to surprise him on the date he’s predicted to be healed enough to get out of bed. The kid himself, it's plain to see, is waiting for that day with bated breath.

They pass Christmas by without really acknowledging it, and Morgan isn’t fazed. When Tony asks her, she shrugs and says, “Christmas isn’t going away. We’re just waiting so Peter can make it more fun.”

It’s the 30th of December - how fitting, there’s just time to celebrate both Christmas and a new year in one - when the doctor exits Peter’s room with a smile.

“He’s ready to become mobile from tomorrow. It’ll take him a little while to get used to being out and about again, so go at his pace, but he’s on the way up.”

His foot is put in a walking boot. His face is clear from stitches, scars closing up and fading. He looks a little like Peter Parker again.

May supports his right side, Tony his left, and, carefully, arduously, they rise from the bed he’s been confined to for three weeks. Peter stumbles.

“Alright?” Tony murmurs.

“Yeah. Wow, I’ve missed this.”   


The kid is weak and unsteady, but the way he’s beaming is unforgettable. They toddle over to the door, and May opens it for them, revealing a sight which widens his grin exponentially: Happy, Rhodey, Pepper and Morgan welcoming his re-entry into the world, the living room around them decked in gaudy Christmas colours, a twinkling tree standing proudly in a corner and harbouring a pile of still-unwrapped presents. Mince pies on the coffee table. Happy is even wearing an ugly sweater. Now Tony’s smiling. It’s really something.

Peter huffs, then laughs, then crumples a little in his guardians’ arms. “Guys,” he says wetly.

Hesitantly, Morgan approaches and puts her arms around Peter, reaching his hip.

“Hey, little miss,” he says shakily to her. “Did you have a hand in all this?”   


“Her idea,” Happy says, looking a little sheepish. Everyone’s smiling but not quite knowing how to proceed.

Peter promptly buries himself in May’s arms and descends into tears.

“Baby,” May soothes through bouts of strangely sympathetic laughter. “What is it?”   


“This is really nice,” Peter sobs.

Tony encompasses their hug in a larger embrace of his own so they’re all folded around one another. He spots the rest of the group sneaking inwards for a group hug and shoos them all away. “That’s just too cheesy. Wait your turn.”

They do, and they get an individual hug from Peter, who dries his tears and smiles and smiles.

“Can I go outside for a minute before we get everything started?” he says to them. “I wanna… I’d really like to see the lake.”

“Sure thing,” Tony says. Peter’s steady enough on his feet now that he can make the journey leaning on Tony alone. May plants a kiss to the kid’s forehead then turns to talk to Morgan, letting them wander through the front door alone. 

Tony drapes a coat across Peter’s shoulders; Peter just cackles at him. “Thanks, dad,” he mocks.

“You’re welcome, three-time survivor of hypothermia who is currently wearing nothing but sweatpants and a shirt.”

“Eh. I live life on the edge.”

“Not if I have a say.”

They descend the steps, Peter lopsided with his walking boot and clasping Tony’s hand tightly, then slow to a halt on the final stretch of wood to spare Peter’s socked feet from the morning dew. It’s not snowing, but it’s crisp and cold and the sun has the crystalline sheen of midwinter. Inhaling deeply, Peter holds the breath, then blows it out in a rush of vapour.

“Air is great.” The kid nudges his head into the nook between Tony’s neck and shoulder. 

Instead of laughing at him, Tony just says, “Sure is.”

“I didn’t get anyone presents.”

“Kid, nobody can blame you. You didn’t have much of a chance to.”

“Everyone’s just done so much for me, keeping me company and postponing Christmas, and... I want to give it back.”

“They do it because they love you to bits.”

Peter grins, hiding it by shoving his face further into Tony’s shoulder.

“They do.  _ We  _ do. You being here is the gift.”

With a short laugh, Peter straightens up again. Tony watches the lake with him, the frost-tipped grass, the paleness of everything. It’s not a depressing paleness, but lively, glistening with the promise of spring to come.

“D’you think next year will be good?” Peter asks offhandedly.

“It had better be.”

“Really.”   


Tony sighs, thinks. “Yeah. I think so. I mean, if we go into it believing it’ll suck, it almost certainly will.”

Peter nods.

“You’ve got a lot of promise in you, Pete,” Tony finds himself telling the kid. “I’m certain next year will be good for you. You’ve got the power to make it good - not everyone can just do that.”

“I hope I  _ will _ make it good,” the kid breathes. “John Keats is right, in that poem. Living through everything is better.”

And as they stand and breathe in the fresh air, Tony swears he hears the universe sing to them.

  
  


_ When old age shall this generation waste, _

_ Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe _

_ Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st, _

_ "Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all _

_ Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.” _

**Author's Note:**

> the poetry segments are from Ode on a Grecian Urn, the Keats poem Tony mentions in the fic :)  
> i hope you folks can have an alright holiday and experience some winter cheer, however you're celebrating! you rock, you're lovely, i love you, keep on keeping on!!


End file.
